


Beyond Words

by moodyrebelmage



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Minor Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Modern Thedas, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodyrebelmage/pseuds/moodyrebelmage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thedas is desperate for hard-hitting, honest journalism, but for the staff of <i>The Herald</i>, a small online news startup, the road to renown is going to require a few compromises. Budding journalist Cullen Rutherford has jumped on board in an attempt to rebuild his life from scratch, but it may not be as simple as he'd hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Words

Aromatic droplets sizzled on the warming plate as Cullen poured his third cup of coffee. He could already feel eyes on him through the conference room window - Josephine’s, probably - and he was running out of opportunities to stall. 

The meeting was well into its third hour, and the morning had been rough from the start. Heavy rains rattled against the windows, and the change in pressure pulsed against his skull, each wave seeming to pull the walls closer around him. 

It wasn’t like they were getting anywhere anyway.

Impatient knuckles rapped on the window, a warning that his time was up. He gulped down what he could of the coffee, newly made and fresh from the pot, and the sharp scalding was enough to distract him from his throbbing temples, at least for a little while. Josephine held the door, and he retook his seat at the back of the room. 

“What about pop culture?” Lace was saying. “Expand entertainment news, start posting listicles?”

She was clearly desperate to escape, too, and her voice wavered as if she dreaded anyone taking her suggestion seriously. 

“No,” Cassandra growled.

“We’ve been over this,” Josephine said, the tip of her pen tapping rhythmically against the table in unison with the clock above her head. “If we expand Entertainment any further, it will dominate the site. It would force us to compete with… _other_ pop culture news sites. We need a feature that will humanize the Herald brand, give us a personality, maybe even a figurehead, but it must be something that won’t overshadow the journalism our readers have come to expect from us.”

“We cannot stoop to the level of that Marcher drivel for a few extra views,” Cass added.

“What about a lifestyle guru?” Dorian offered from the other end of the room. “Someone like Madame de Fer? Perhaps we could get someone from her staff to ghost write a weekly column?”

“We don’t have the money for Madame de Fer,” Leliana answered. “And we need someone who can contribute at least twice a week. But…”

Her eyes met Joesphine’s across the table, the entire staff waiting with bated breath as they conversed in whatever silent language they had developed over their years together.

“I like it,” she concluded. “A lifestyle feature would be grounded and relatable without all the sensation of a gossip section. Well done, Dorian.”

“Yes, wherever would you be without me?”

“And with that, let us adjourn for the day,” Josephine said, already collecting her copious notes. Her professional mask was flawless, but Cullen had worked with her long enough to know she must have been just as eager to get out of there as he was, to conclude a meeting so quickly. “We will reconvene on Monday. Be prepared to expand on this idea.”

The relief in the room was palpable. 

The Herald had launched nearly a year earlier. The initial response had been underwhelming, but as word got out that there was an online news source that valued accurate, hard-hitting journalism over clickbait and page views, they had gained a moderate but loyal following. More readers linked their articles on Squeakr every day, forcing them to expand their servers and tech support staff, which in turn increased the need for more revenue. The founders were chomping at the bit to find something that would bolster the site without sacrificing their reputation.

Dorian blocked the door just as Cullen was about to make his escape.

“Before you all go,” he said, bobbing his hands to placate the growls of his colleagues, “Allow me to remind you that Milo’s first birthday party is tomorrow at seven, and we’re expecting to see each and every one of you.” The grumbling intensified, but Dorian weathered it with a glare. “Now, now, you owe me. If it weren’t for me, you’d be stuck in this room all weekend.”

He stepped aside, allowing Cullen to duck into the brightly lit hallway. Behind him, his peers dispersed to their offices and cubicles, tightly packed onto the single floor of space they could afford to lease while they waited for the website to take off. A few steps away, a stack of papers waited for him on his desk, notes he’d taken during interviews with the city planners of Kirkwall. Leliana had asked him to compose a feature piece about the reconstruction efforts there, a project she felt was particularly suited to him, and on a good day he had agreed. Thinking about digging into it now made his throat itch. It was only three in the afternoon, and there was still work to do, but outside the rain was cool, the air was crisp, and somewhere beyond it all was a dark room and a soft chair.

“Are you bringing anything for Milo?” Cassandra broke through his thoughts, too flustered to notice him start. 

“What?”

“A gift? Are you bringing a gift for the baby?”

“You’re going to that?”

“Of course, I’m going; everyone’s going.” Her brow pinched in frustration. “Cullen…”

“I- I’m going, I’m going.” 

The invitation had been sitting in his email for weeks. He appreciated his colleagues, liked them even, but it hadn’t occurred to him to take a child’s birthday party seriously.

“If you don’t have an idea, I’m sure Josephine has a hundred. I could talk to her. If it would be easier, we could go in on one together,” Cassandra offered, and then added before he could agree, “I’ll text you once I’ve figured something out.” 

She surveyed him, making no move to leave as he fidgeted before her, running his fingers through the hairs at the back of his neck.

“When is your Kirkwall feature due?” she asked.

“Two weeks. Leliana wants it up before the dedication of the Hightown Memorial.”

She nodded for a moment, weighing her words.

“You should take your notes and go home-”

“Cassandra, I’m fine-”

“There’s nothing you can do here that you can’t do at your own desk.”

“I don’t-”

“It’s not pity, Cullen. Your feature doesn’t require you to suffer under these damn cheap lights all day. Just go, while there’s still coffee for the rest of us.”

He might have argued with anyone else, but Cassandra met his stare with unflinching poise. When her orders were met with silence, she assumed she had won and marched away, satisfied. While the rest of the staff returned to their desks, Cullen gathered his papers and walked out the door.

Once home, he tossed his glasses down and scratched a tally mark onto the calendar hanging over his desk. There were fewer this month, but that was typical as temperatures dropped. Once the pressure balanced out, the chill eliminated the worst of the swelling, but the autumn was still fresh, still dancing the line that required a different wardrobe every day. Sometimes that was worse than the predictable pain of summer.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

_“Leliana knows someone who makes rocking horses. You owe me 50. See you tomorrow. -Cassandra ”_

He thanked her, dropped the notes on the desk, and retired to his room.

***

Cullen had been to Dorian’s rowhouse twice before: once for a mandatory dinner party shortly after they had hired the fact-checker, and once to pick him up when his husband had needed the use of their car. Street parking was troublesome on an ordinary day in the trendy uptown neighborhood, but the Pavus party had rendered it non-existent, forcing late-comers like Cullen to tour the nearby blocks. There was no missing the party, though. Warm strings of lights lined every window of their home, illuminating the pale brick in the dimming sunset. The low buzz of voices and tinkling glass wafted through the street. 

His hands felt bare as he approached the door; perhaps he should have brought a little something extra so it wouldn’t look like he was arriving empty-handed, a bottle of wine, maybe. Was it appropriate to bring wine to a baby’s party? Before he could finish that thought, a tall man with an auburn bun and a baby balanced on his hip flung the door open wide. Confusion flashed across the man’s harried face, and then brightened into a warm smile.

“We ran out of ice,” he explained. “I thought you were my sister. Come on in!” He motioned toward a couch to the right of them as Cullen shrugged off his jacket. “You must be one of Dorian’s coworkers? I’m Rook. And this,” he said, bouncing the grey-eyed child at his side, “is Milo!”

“Happy birthday, Milo.” Cullen offered his hand to the father. “I’m-”

“Everyone is on the patio,” Rook interrupted, pushing past to lead him to a sliding door on the other side of the house. A long table had been erected along the wall, engulfed entirely in brightly wrapped boxes. Rook gave an affectionate chuckle. “I told him to put ‘no gifts’ on the invitations, but you know Dorian.”

He slid the door open to guide Cullen through without another word, and disappeared back into the house.

Dozens of guests clustered in the tiny yard, but no children were present beyond the guest of honor. Two more long tables, both draped in implausibly clean linen, occupied at least a quarter of the standing room, forcing everyone to press together to give them clearance. Cullen approached the narrow space around them, hoping to catch a glimpse of his colleagues. 

“You made it,” Cassandra said, sidling up to survey the array of glittering hors d’oeuvres trays before them. 

“I wouldn’t dare miss it.” He smirked at her through the dim string lighting, nodding at the elaborate two-tiered cake rising above the puff pastries and skewers. “His Excellency deserves only the best.”

She laughed, her eyes dancing over the twinkling lights and impeccable garlands strung around the fence.

“You didn’t come here expecting subtlety,” she said.

“Hardly.” 

She handed him a small plate from the corner of the table, plain, but real ceramic. 

“Where is our illustrious fact-checker, anyway?” he asked.

“He is the consummate host, and no one can get more than thirty seconds with him. You should see the favor bags.”

“What the hell is a favor bag?”

“ _Ice!_ ” a voice cried from the sliding door. Rook marched onto the patio, beaming in triumph. The baby was nowhere to be seen as he nudged his way through the crowd to a bar Cullen hadn’t yet noticed in the corner. A small throng followed him, each with identical empty glasses. 

“I’ll be right back.” Cassandra shook her own empty glass at him and jumped in the back of the queue.

Once the crowd had cleared a little, Cullen had an unhindered view of the table next to him. What he had initially dismissed as more gifts turned out to be tidy rows of paper gift bags, each with a name written in flawless script. He found his own and tugged it closer. Inside was a wine glass, also etched with his name; a perfectly piped sugar cookie in the shape of a one; a fragrant bar of green soap, wrapped in a twine ribbon; and a bunch of purple carrots, their tops neatly trimmed and braided together. He lifted the glass out with the carrots still nestled inside, unable to contain a bemused chuckle. 

“Not a fan of root vegetables?” a voice asked beside him. 

He stuffed the carrots back in the bag, his face flushing as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.,” she added. 

Shrugging it off, he stepped back toward the fence and turned to face the woman. She was new, or new to him at least, and she smiled with sharp eyes that turned slightly down at the edges. Her plump cheeks were flushed as well, probably from the abominable pink concoction she swished in her hand.

“You didn’t,” he said. “I, uh... “ He coughed out something between a wheeze and a laugh. “I was trying to determine their purpose. The carrots, that is.”

“Their purpose?” she laughed.

“Who gives carrots away at a birthday party?”

“Well, they are _colorful_ carrots.”

Was she teasing him? He chewed his cheek, stalling as he formulated a reply that wouldn’t make him look ridiculous.

“Have you considered that they might just be really _good_ carrots?” she offered.

He watched her another moment before allowing himself a chuckle. She was kidding.

“I suppose not,” he replied. “Let’s hope there’s no hidden meaning behind the soap, either.”

“Well… Not everyone got soap.” 

She masked a sly smile behind her glass as she sipped, and the heat rose in his cheeks again. _What was that supposed to mean?_ He rubbed at his neck with cool fingers, scanning the area for the rest of his acquaintances and finding them at last, all huddled together around a torch at the far corner of the yard.

When he turned back, the space next to him was empty, but his bag had been brought forward, and the glass with his name etched on it had been pulled out. His carrots were nowhere to be seen. He searched the crowd, unable to pin down if he was amused or upset, but the woman was gone. Grabbing the glass, he made his way toward his friends.

Cassandra had already joined them, and they nodded as he approached.

“I was beginning to think you’d play the wallflower all night,” Leliana teased.

“Someone stole my carrots...” 

She laughed, as ever amused by his misfortune. Leaning back against the fence, she peered over Josephine’s shoulder. The shorter woman had her nose in a book, furiously scribbling something onto a notepad.

“Well, you can’t have ours,” she said. “Josie is dying to try this recipe tomorrow.”

“You brought a cookbook?”

“Of course not. There were five copies of it on the bookshelf by the door. Try to show a little more situational awareness, Cullen. You’re supposed to be a journalist.”

He sighed, half-tempted to defend himself, but she was already laughing at him again. Not for the first time he remembered why he liked working for the Herald, how much it reminded him of home.

Frantic tinging drew their attention to the small patio in front of the sliding door. Dorian stood on a chair, clanking a spoon against an empty glass, his husband at his side with the baby once more on his hip. Milo rubbed at his eyes, smashing his face into his father’s shoulder.

“If we could have just a moment,” Dorian began, “we would like to thank you all for coming while the baby is still awake.” The soft murmur of chuckles swept through the gathering. “As you all know, this year has been chaos for our little family. We had a baby, and bought a house. Rook has embraced the madness that is working from home with an infant, and last Cassus I accepted a job with the sharpest little news source this side of the Waking Sea. Your support and friendship has meant the world to us during this time, and we didn’t want to miss this opportunity to thank you.” The woman that stole his carrots stepped forward to fill Dorian’s glass with champagne and then disappeared back into the throng. Cullen’s foot jerked to go after her, but the crowd before him was thick and tipsy, and his neck prickled at the thought of pushing through it. What would he even say? 

“To our friends,” Dorian continued his toast. “To our future, and to our family!”

Silence descended as everyone took a sip. Still flustered, Cullen was a beat behind.

“Are you alright?” Cassandra asked.

Behind them, the murmur of the party built once more.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

The baby was put to bed after that, handed over to a pale young man to look after inside the house. A few of the guests withdrew once it became clear that they would not be opening the gifts during the party, but most stuck around for cake. With more room on the patio, a folding table was set up, and Rook brought out some of his treasured board games. Dorian left him to it and joined his co-workers, who were now clumped together on the ground.

“Just when you swear you’ve remembered everything, you realize you’ve forgotten to provide chairs,” Dorian chastised himself. “Next time we’ll do better.”

It was no empty promise, either; he was already discussing another dinner party with Josephine as they both poured over the cookbook she had taken from his shelf. Every once in awhile, she would squeal in excitement, “she has bees?” or “ooo, candied petals,” interrupting Cassandra as she gushed over the latest episode of _Heart of a Champion_ , or Lace as she demonstrated one of her napkin ball bar tricks. The ground was hard, but the company was soft and relaxed, and for a while even Cullen was able to let down his guard.

After the cake was served, the Herald staff trickled out the door within half an hour of each other. Rook saw them out as Dorian began transferring leftovers into glass containers.

“You forgot your bag!” he cried as Cullen shrugged his jacket on. He darted away, returning less than a minute later with the bag and a frown. “You didn’t get any carrots!”

A smile tugged at the corner of Cullen’s mouth. 

“I think they were more important to one of your other guests than they were to me.”

“Well, that was rude. You should have said something! Here, I can get you more!” He leaned back and shouted into a hall to the right. “ _Elodie! Do we have any more carrots?_ ”

“Just a second!” a woman’s voice called back.

Dorian burst in from the kitchen, eyes afire.

“ _Are you trying to wake the baby?_ ” he hissed.

“Whoops!” Rook blushed, tugging a few loose tendrils behind his ear. “Sorry, love.”

“If you wake him, he’s yours.”

“Look,’ said Cullen, “don’t worry about it. I have everything else.”

“I can send Dorian with some on Monday!”

“I’m _fine_. I promise. Thank you for everything.”

He held his hand out and this time Rook took it, giving it a vigorous shake before ushering Cullen through the door.

The contrast between the warm house and the empty street was stark and sudden. Maybe he should have waited for Cassandra, or left when Leliana and Josephine had absconded with Dorian’s cookbook. Some nights, there was comfort to be found in the quiet, but tonight it felt hollow, the desolation where hours before there had been such verve leaving him a little uneasy as he walked back to his car. The favor bag swayed at his side, the glass within sliding back and forth with nothing there to wedge it in place. Perhaps that explained the carrots. 

It wasn’t often Cullen regretted the solitude of his apartment. After years in the barracks, a refuge that was all his own was an unexpected relief. Every so often someone would check in on him, afraid he was lonely, but they were mistaken if they thought he resented the quiet. Most of the time.

He stopped at an Old Tegrin station on the way home and grabbed a few cans of iced coffee. Back in his car, he took the long way home. Even on a Saturday, the bright strip of Haven’s main street wasn’t exactly hopping, but the cheery streetlights and occasional clusters of smiling people were just soothing enough to ease the sting of the cold sheets that awaited him.


End file.
